


I Swear

by padawanjinx



Category: Transformers - All Media Types, Transformers Generation One
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-01
Updated: 2014-08-01
Packaged: 2018-02-11 09:17:18
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,067
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2062566
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/padawanjinx/pseuds/padawanjinx
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What the slag is a "Swear Jar?" The Autobots are about to find out.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Swear

I Swear

 

Disclaimer: Don’t own. Make no money. Am broke and protect belongings with firearms. You’ve been warned.

 

Liked it? Hated it?

Been done to death and I just added more dirt to the grave?

All feedback is welcomed.

 

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Everyone had received the memo, citing the exact date and time they were expected to meet in the rec room, the only room big enough to house all the Autobot forces. Whispers raced along the halls. Shoulders were shrugged. Energon was downed, heavily in the twins case, and questions floated through the air until it hung so thick with tension, it became a fog of suspicion and ill intent. Rumors had started almost as soon as the messages went out; reminding the Autobot army that they were a vast collection of mechs, and it had to be something big to garner a full mandatory attendance. Missing the meeting meant a personal lecture from Optimus Prime and a stint in the brig.

Even Red Alert wasn’t exempt. 

If the personal memos were enough to start the flame of suspicion, then when the announcement sheets started appearing all over the Ark, the rumor mill turned into a raging forest fire. Everyone looked combative, some openly staring in passive aggression. Vocalizers were held, optics slitted in anger, and no one trusting any one else. Something or some ONE alerted the Commanding Officers to a secret or a situation that had everyone on edge.

Basically, everyone adopted Sunstreaker’s personality. 

What ever had the command element so adamant about ensuring everyone’s attendance, it had to be something monumental. And it affected the entire crew, because it wasn’t something that was only discussed behind closed doors amongst the high ranking officers. 

The meeting was scheduled for Thursday morning, eight sharp. The earliness made the crew even more wary, wondering what had alerted the senior officers to such a degree that they had to halt everyone’s schedule and demand attendance. 

By Wednesday evening, there had been three fights, eight incarcerations, shouting matches, accusations, and a very strange melee in the hall that ended up with six mechs being sent to the infirmary. 

Oddly enough, Sunstreaker and Sideswipe had remained out of the main fracases, and were seen with immaculate paint jobs and buffed polishes that were illegal on the highways. They breezed by the shouters, accusations, hurt feelings and lack of general understanding amongst the crew. 

The twins were cool, collected, and didn’t rise to the bait that anyone threw their way. They simply shrugged and went about their business, not offering caustic remarks or unfounded accusations. They knew better. 

It wasn’t wise to tip your hand to something that could later bring you trouble or shame. Which was why the twins kept their vocalizers off and refused to offer any conjecture on the subject of the meeting. They didn’t spout about misplaced loyalties and questionable deeds that had some mechs blushing, other’s looking scandalous when they overheard the conversation meant between friends. A lot of secrets were being exposed via carelessness and thunderous vocalizers. 

All thanks to a memo and reminders that littered the Ark about the undisclosed mandatory meeting ordered by Optimus Prime. When Jazz, Prowl and Ironhide were asked about the possible reasons why their leader would invoke such a stern reprimand over a meeting and the secrecy behind it, but they reminded the ones questioning them that it was up to Prime to make the announcements. Their lip components were sealed. 

Truthfully, Jazz and Ironhide were clueless as to why Optimus had asked Prowl to schedule a meeting and ensure that everyone attended. Jazz asked Prowl if he knew what was going on and the Praxian simply stated that it was up to Optimus Prime to provide the details and explanations to his soldiers. Jazz frowned but left the tactical officer’s office, his own processor buzzing with what could have caused such a frenzy of activity among the crew. 

Jazz already knew about the gambling and the brewing of high grade, having a vested interest in both, though he also knew Prowl didn’t mind as long as the activities remained ‘under the radar,’ as it were. The only exception to Prowl’s feigned ignorance was during parties, then the Second sequestered himself in his quarters and deemed that he had not physically witnessed any infractions. The crew was glad for that minor leeway, though some felt bad that the Second couldn’t attend the parties because of the illegality of activities. 

So, what could have Prime so adamant about a meeting and ensuring everyone’s attendance?

Surely he wasn’t bringing up the fraternization rule again? Primus, the crew was all adults. Well, physically, and if they needed something to blow off a little steam, then rank shouldn’t matter. No one had ever interfaced another and used it for a promotion or special treatment. At least, not to Jazz’s knowledge. Sometimes couples didn’t make it to the quarters and some had been known to interface in the halls. Jazz himself had made use of the conference table, the far consol in the command hub, every cell in the brig and every desk surface on the Ark. He was no stranger for a quick ‘face and release. Hence why the crew dubbed their interactions ‘FNR’ when any humans were around. 

Recharge didn’t come easy to the Ark residents, and when it was time to gather in the rec room, heavy pedes echoed down the halls. Mechs grumbled, jostled to the energon dispenser and picked a place to wait until the meeting started. 

At exactly 8:00am, Optimus Prime strode into the room, closely followed by Prowl. The duo ventured to the raised platform that displayed Blaster’s stereo equipment, and the room fell into an instant quiet. Prime looked to Prowl, who swept across the sea of faces and gave a single nod in acknowledgement that all residents were in attendance. 

“I know there are a lot of rumors and suspicions going around and let me put your processors at ease,” Prime started, looking out over the faces and finding most of them in rapt attention. Wheeljack’s optics was dim, probably in thought about a project. The twins were playing some human game with paper and symbols. Huffer and Gears were exchange death glares. 

“Something has some to my attention and I feel that it must be addressed,” Prime continued. “Due to recent encounters with the humans, we have been made aware of a problem that has been plaguing our ranks for some time, though we were unable to identify it.” He waited for a moment and added, “Our language.”

“What about it?” Ironhide asked from his seat in the front. He was sharing a table with Smokescreen, Trailbreaker and Mirage. The other three exchanged looks as well, clearly in the dark as to what had their commander so perturbed about their way of speaking.

Prime noted the looks on the soldiers’ faces and turned to Prowl, sweeping his hand in a gesture for the tactician to take over.

“Recently the human dignitaries were visiting and they overhead some questionable dialogue,” Prowl said, his optics doing a circuit of the room to see if anyone showed any inkling of remorse for the day in question.

Several bots in the room exchanged glances, perturbed over what could have escaped their collected attention.

“What kind of dialogue?” Jazz asked, feeling a flustered over what could have upset the humans so badly they’d feel the need to bring it to the attention of the command element. He certainly hoped no one overheard the guys talking during the poker game. Things got a little crude when the crew had some high grade and assorted passions got out of hand. Lips liked to flap and bots were prone to saying and doing stupid things with the ignorant human populace around. 

“Apparently their impression was of a… vulgar nature,” Prowl said, a door wing twitching.

“Slag, they didn’t hear any …. intimate stuff… did they?” Blaster asked. He was notorious for overindulging in high grade and waking up with a new berth partner and no recollection on how he got there. He was what was dubbed, ‘an easy date’. 

Prowl’s optics narrowed, knowing he’d have to set up yet another meeting to inform the crew of what was appropriate outside of their quarters and what was best left behind closed, and locked, doors. Even Spike and Sparkplug weren’t allowed to spend a night. After shift, it was time for the mechs to kick back and enjoy themselves, free from judgmental human gazes and questions.

“No, nothing about personal issues,” Prowl said. “But the fact that our vocabulary has become rather crass.”

“How so?” Sideswipe asked, genuinely curious. No one talked any different than the others, except Mirage and he was just a prim little pampered princess. 

“I’m talking about our usage of vulgar or crude language,” Prowl said, noting than more than one head swiveled to stare at the twins. 

“What?” Sideswipe asked, glaring at the offenders. Sunstreaker’s scowl deepened, a rumbling threat reverberated to anyone who wanted to push the issue.

“Well, you do have a habit of talking slag,” Ironhide said to the ruby warrior. 

“Precisely my point,” Prowl injected, cutting off Sideswipe’s squawk of protest. Ironhide’s smug look disappeared when Prowl focused on him and added, “That will be quite enough of that language, Ironhide.”

“What?!” Ironhide snapped, clearly shocked by the tactician’s demeanor. 

“The usage of colorful metaphors, crude language, and references to mating habits, be they Cybertronian or human, are to be halted,” Prowl stated in a superior tone.

It was everyone’s turn to jump and shout at the tactician. The twins looked murderous toward the command staff.

“Enough!” Prime roared, gaining instant silence. “Prowl is right. We have become lax in our manner and deportment. We conduct ourselves as unintelligent, dull witted buffoons who find no other alternative to express themselves than through vulgarity and shameful expressions.”

Several heads bowed in shame. Others, like the twins, simply looked thunderstruck. Their language had never been an issue before. Pit, they even expanded their vocabulary when they joined the ranks!

It was all the humans fault! They were the ones not comfortable listening to their language and forcing them to change their speech patterns. It wasn’t fair. The Ark was their home. They should be allowed to speak freely, whether to a comrade or someone who irritated them and asked for an aft kicking.

 

“This is a good thing,” Prime countered, holding up his hand for silence. “As intelligent beings, I’m sure we can find proper ways to express ourselves instead of slipping into the gutter of linguistics.”

More than one face looked mutinous. It was bad enough they were on a strange planet, living by rules intending on keeping inferior beings safe, limited fuel rations, oily, dirty, un-evolved humans as allies, constantly menaced by the Decepticons and having to perform duties that not only they weren’t programmed for, but bored them into near stasis. And now their lives were going to get even more restricted.

No vulgar language.

To put it mildly, it sucked.

“So, what happens if we swear?” Smokescreen asked, optics narrowed at his fellow Praxian.

“The humans have a nice way of self correcting,” Prowl put in, not perturbed with the dangerous looks being thrown his way from his comrades. He was used to their burning gazes and clenched fists. 

“We each have credit accounts with the humans,” Prowl said, bringing up the Autobots collective banking account and displaying it on one of Tele-Tran’s monitors. “The humans reimburse us for services and Sideswipe has invested heavily in the stock market on our behalf, ensuring we don’t have to rely on our hosts’ generosity or fear of their financial reprimand should they tire of us or wish to seek retribution. “

Several bots nodded, all having a shared interest in the continuation of their alliance.

“So, for every vulgar word or expression used, you will donate one dollar to a ‘Swear Jar’.” Prowl showed an example, his own name displaying with a dollar donation for a phantom transgression. 

“A dollar?” several chorused in unison, all sounding shocked. 

“I figure the financial aspect of possibly lowering your credit account, coupled with your lowering of intellectual capacity by using such words to begin with, it would further promote incentive to not use such language.” Prowl deadpanned, glad he was made of stronger alloys with the intense glares he was receiving. He could have ignited a hundred times over!

“A whole dollar?” Sideswipe whined, every bit the petulant sparking. 

“It shouldn’t be so bad,’ Bumblebee said with a smile.

“Only because you never curse,” Sideswipe uttered. He looked to Prowl and added, “What about the mechs who don’t curse. Surely they have to be punished as well.”

“This isn’t a punishment.” Prowl amended.

“Wanna bet?” Sideswipe asked, crossing his arms over his chassis. “I say limiting someone to a few words is a form of enslavement.”

“Not enslavement,” Prowl reiterated, noting that several of the mechs had scowled since the mech put it in that context. “It is merely closing off one avenue of communication, so you may exercise others, preferably terms suitable for your ranks and ages and not some tantrum throwing sparkling with the intelligence of a cleaning drone.”

The words had the desired effect. Everyone looked sullen and embarrassed. Well, Sunstreaker didn’t. He rarely spoke to anyone, so it wasn’t like he was going to be breaking the rule that often. However Sideswipe was notorious for using gutter dweller talk. Well, he grew up in the corrupt underground illicit world of Kaon. If you lived in the gutter, you spoke fluently. 

“Yeah, yeah, what about you and Prime?” Ironhide said, wisely omitting himself from the list. “You two never curse. So what are you going to be punished with?”

“Yeah, you have to be fair,” Sideswipe added, earning several noises of agreement from his comrades. “Everyone has to be punished.”

“This isn’t a punishment!” Prowl snapped, his door wings fluttering. “This is an attempt to allow you to prove to the world that you aren’t some back ally, sewer dwelling, uneducated miscreants with a grossly limited expressive vocabulary.”

“So, this swear jar, how will Tele-Tran know when to punish us?” Jazz asked.

“When you use a swear word, be it Earthen or Cybertronian origin, Tele-tran will register it and add it to your total. When the allotted time has passed, then we will deduct your totals accordingly, donating the money to charity.” Prowl explained.

“Are we to be restrained every minute of the day, or is there a specific time you wish to schedule our enslavement?” Ironhide asked, arms crossed over his chassis and glaring daggers.

“Can we curse our in rooms or are they out of limits too?” Gears added, getting the crew on his side.

“You may curse in your rooms, but when you are interacting with others, be they human or mech, you are to use a civil vocalizer.” Prowl amended.

“When is this punishment taking effect?” Bluestreak asked, his face creased in worry.

“It will be in effect starting at first shift tomorrow morning,” Prowl said, scowling at Ironhide who muttered obscene expressions about the black and white officer. “And it is NOT punishment.”

“Speak for yourself, Mr. High and Mighty,” Ironhide groused, slumping in his seat and feeling defeated. He felt slighted that Prowl hadn’t ignited by his stare. 

“Tele-Tran will be keeping score tabs on language through the use of filters,’ Prowl said, making sure everyone understood the parameters of the new restrictions.

 

“Great, censored in our own home,” Gears groused, looking even more sullen than usual. 

“Yeah, what could be worse?” Smokescreen pouted, knowing that he was going to have to move the poker games to private quarters, lest the crew end up thousands of dollars in the vernacular quagmire. 

“Banning of language all together?” Ironhide put in, his optics drifting to Prowl.

“Don’t know if that would be such a bad idea. Keep some mechs from having to speak at all.” Ratchet put in, not liking the idea of being censored. 

Optics swiveled to Prowl’s direction. He gave his usual impassive glare, not rising to the bait. He wasn’t very popular with his comrades, simply because he threw the book at them at every opportunity. The only one who seemed to be able to get away with things was Prime, and Prowl had recited enough protocol and code toward their leader that Prime inevitably gave in, just to shut the tactician up. Sometimes he was worse than Bluestreak. 

“I don’t like this,” Brawn huffed, crossing his arms and scowling at the command unit. “I mean, we’re all adults. Why can not we speak what’s on our processors?”

“Yeah, it’s not like we haven’t heard the terms before,” Gears added, mirroring the same pose. Soon all the Autobots were adopting the same defensive manner, their faces dark scowls. Sunstreaker actually looked to be in bright spirits compared to the angry stares the command unit was receiving.

“You sure this is such a good idea?” Jazz asked out of the corner of his mouth.

“Positive,’ Prime said, his demeanor changing from amicable leader to imposing ruler of the Cybertronian race. “Not only will we improve our vocabulary we will show the humans our advanced intelligence and make them feel the fool for using such inadequate means of communication.”

 

“Shouldn’t be too hard to do,” Jazz said, giving the assembly a dashing smile. He opened his arms wide to encompass the Autobot forces as a whole. “Maybe if we pretend we don’t understand their lower form of communication, they will realize how idiotic they sound by the constant repetition and debasing euphemisms they use.”

“You’re right,” Ironhide said, getting into the groove. “This isn’t too be bad.”

 

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Next morning….

“Who’s turn was it to fix the slagging dispenser?” Ironhide yelled, holding an empty cube and glaring at the sputtering dispenser. 

“One dollar has been added to your credit,” Tele-Tran voiced over the comm.

“Damn,” Ironhide muttered.

“Two dollars.”

“Okay, okay, I get it! I’ll find my own wrench and bang the fragging contraction until it surrenders,” he snapped, stalking off to find Wheeljack’s tool supply. 

“Three dollars,” Tele-Tran beeped.

Ironhide screamed, stomping through the corridors and acting like a maddened revelry to those still slumbering. 

“What the frag is your problem?” Gears shouted from his doorway, rubbing his optics like a sparkling.

“One dollar has been added to your account,” Tele-Tran said over comms.

“Slagging perfect!” Gears snapped, stepping back into his quarters and glaring after Ironhide.

“Two dollars,” Tele-Tran counted in a monotone. 

Gears slammed his door and let loose a curse that rattled the bulkheads. Tele-Tran respectively ignored the chatter in private quarters. 

 

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BOOM!

“Wheeljack, you crazy aft fragger!” someone shouted from the hall.

“Two dollars has been added to your account,” Tele-Tran intoned.

“What?” came the indignant squawk. “Are you kidding me?”

Another voice joined the first in the hall, “What has Wheeljack blown up this time?”

“Beats the slag out of me,” the first answered.

“One dollar has been added to your account,” Tele-Tran announced.

The voice proceeded to abuse both English and Cybertronian language before they halted, ex-venting in harsh raspy rattles.

“Forty eight dollars has been added….” Tele-Tran started, but the message was blocked out as the voice screamed one long explanative that peeled the paint of the walls.

Tele-Tran gave a feeble beep. The comm. came alive with the call for Wheeljack to come fix Tele-Tran, if he wasn’t too damaged. The inventor answered with a cheery affirmative, hobbling down the corridor and passing several Autobots. Everyone noticed his aft plates were suspiciously missing. 

“Nice aft, Wheeljack,” Sideswipe catcalled, taking a picture and storing it for blackmail later.

Wheeljack gave the red hellion a curious look before starting the daunting task of fixing the main computer. 

 

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“Slag, I’mvv over ener-lllizedddz,” Jazz slurred, his optical band was bright on one side and dark on the other. He looked like a fading paint scheme. 

“Eighty one dollars,” Tele-Tran called, but no one paid any attention any more. They were far too inebriated to care.

“Me stoo,” Sideswipe added, giving a cross look to the instigator of the drinking game.

Smokescreen sat back watching his table mates, his optics overly bright with the extra charge. 

“You flagger, yous arrent gized…” Sideswipe snapped, looking into his cube and glaring at the bottom. ‘Yous gibbed us the lard snuff.”

“Tis all high gradez,” Smokescreen put in, his vents hiccupping to compensate for the extra energy absorbed in his relays and having no where to go. “We’b shares the shame..”

“Come on, idiot,” Sunstreaker said, gaining his pedes and wobbling slightly. He had done his fair share of shots, but he had a cast iron tank. It didn’t faze him. Course, he also had a secret recessed tank that stored the high grade and didn’t allow it to affect his systems.

Sideswipe swayed and fell into his brother’s arms, taking the opportunity to wrap his arms around his brother and sing a lively ditty he learned from a dock worker long ago. 

Sunstreaker gave Smokescreen a hard stare, adding, “I win. I expect my payment promptly.”

“Tis good,” Smokescreen cooed, then face planted on the table. 

Jazz swayed like a leaf caught in a gentle spring wind. A soft snuffling was coming from his vents. 

“What don’t you go recharge with Prowl tonight?” Sunstreaker suggested, knowing the Third in Command was very susceptible to suggestion when he was inebriated. Sunstreaker took the advantage whenever he could.

“Yeash,” Jazz smiled, rising from the table and continuing to sway on the unknown wind.

Sunstreaker snickered and hoisted his drunken brother in his arms. He half dragged him to their quarters. When they entered, Sunstreaker dropped his twin onto his berth and proceeded to purge the high grade from his system. Just when he settled onto his berth and closed his optics for a well deserved recharge, he heard shouting in the corridor. 

He smiled in the dark, knowing the Praxian had just received a drunken gift-mech. And from the all the shouting, he wasn’t too happy about it.

Something occurred to the golden warrior as he started to shut down. He called out with great effort, “Tele-Tran, what were the totals for us this evening?”

“Sideswipe one hundred ninety one dollars,” Tele-Tran stated. “Sunstreaker forty six dollars.”

“Sounds about right,” Sunstreaker muttered, powering down with a mischievous smile on his face plates that should have been deemed illegal. 

 

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“I miss Cybertron,” Mirage sighed, swirling his drink with a morose expression.

“We know,” Hound and Trailbreaker chimed.

“You miss the Towers,” Trailbreaker held up his hand and ticked off. “Hunting turbo foxes. The other nobles. The free flowing refined high grade. And not having to spend every day worrying about the fate of our world or its people.”

“What I really miss is the femmes,” Mirage said flatly.

“Yeah, miss those too,” Hound added. He waved to Tracks, Inferno, and Red Alert, who just finished a shift scouring through video feed from the local human town.

The trio grabbed cubes and headed to the table, pulling up chairs and reclining. Tracks was rubbing his optics. Inferno switched his optics off and rubbed the delicate shutters. Red Alert was the only one who wasn’t affected by staring at a bank of computer screens for several hours. 

“Remember the pleasure houses?” Trailbreaker said, earning looks of interest from the three new mechs. Inferno even switched on his optics.

“Best one was in Iacon,” Mirage put in, still staring at his cube. “There was one in Praxus, but they closed it. Enforcers, I think. It was nice, but not as nice as Iacon’s pleasure centers.”

“What brought this topic up?” Red Alert asked, feeling his face flush. He was probably the only member, aside from the younger generation, who had never visited the renowned establishments.

“Mirage is missing home,” Hound said, motioning toward the melancholy bot. 

“There was a nice pleasure bot by the name of Meridian,” Mirage put in, his lip curling in a sneer that was reserved only for the upper class. “The things she could do with her valve.”

“Hmmm,” Tracks hummed, his optics distant with memory. “I remember those.”

“Tried to buy her,” Mirage said, earning angry stares from his comrades. The war was based on inequality and strife amongst the populace. It took a weary gladiator to open the optics of the people, before his decree of equality shifted to more self centered platforms. 

“Owner wouldn’t part with her, no matter how much I offered,” Mirage supplied, oblivious to the narrowed gazes. “Would be nice to have a pleasure model here, ready to serve.”

Though the mechs were upset over Mirage’s callous disregard to a sentient femme who had been enslaved, a part of them agreed. They all shifted uncomfortably in their chairs from the mentioned part. 

“You know, the humans have inventive ways of stimulating,” Hound put in, breaking everyone’s thoughts. “Makes you wonder if we can incorporate some of the same…. Variations?”

“Primus, if you have a valve tucked away somewhere on your frame, you better not let that information get out,” Inferno snorted, giving the green mech a dubious look. 

“You’d never be in need of a date for a party,” Red Alert snickered, earning a clap on the shoulder from Inferno. 

“He’d be the party,” Inferno snickered.

“You’d earn your designation,” Tracks laughed, watching as the Jeep blushed, his cheek plates staining dark pewter. 

Trailbreaker grinned and played a sound clip, “You ain’t nothing but a hound dog!”

The group roared with laughter. 

“No, I don’t have a valve!” Hound snapped, slapping Trailbreaker to get him to stop playing the annoying song. “But if I did, I wouldn’t share a berth with any of you.”

“Oh, come on,” Tracks purred, adopting his most adorable look. Somehow it made him look more dangerous than attractive. “I’ve seen you over energized. You’d be on your back faster than Sideswipe can pour the high grade!”

“The mech valves aren’t as nice as the femmes,” Mirage supplied, just catching onto the conversation. “Every mech valve I’ve tried has been disappointing.”

The others stared at the noble, clearly surprised by his admission. 

“I think its because there isn’t the right amount of sensors to stimulate a spike,” Mirage put in, not perturbed by their looks. “Or maybe it’s the male voice that puts you off, but there’s nothing like the finely attuned femme valve with the magnificent nodes that give your spike a good charge.” He offered a sinfully wicked look and added, “Not to mention, the noises they make.”

The mechs around the table gave slow nods of understanding.

 

“It used to be a competition between the Nobles. Who could get their femme to sing the best and the longest,” Mirage smiled in his sneering demeanor, “Who could last the longest and make the most music.”

“Oh, did I hear music?” Jazz asked, joining the group and leaning over Tracks’ chair.

“Femme music,” Trailbreaker clarified. 

“The music they make when you’re spiking them,” Mirage added, seeing Jazz’s confused face.

Jazz grinned in understanding. “Oh, that music.”

The group fell silent, each lost in their own thoughts. It was broken when Mirage glanced into his cube, staring at the bottom.

“I miss Cybertron,” he sighed.

The sentiment was echoed around the room. No one paid any attention to Tele-Tran’s announcements about their fees as they continued to discuss illicit topics. 

No one cared until they received their notices. Then the acerbic titles flowed freely, making Tele-Tran erupt in a small fire that took Wheeljack, Ratchet, and Perceptor the better part of a day to fix.

 

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Jazz wobbled slightly, hand poised a couple inches from the bulkhead. He resumed walking when the floor wasn’t pitching like a pirate ship on high seas. His tanks gurgled with the abundance of high grade, his optical band only alight in small spots that looked like a faded television set. A snuffling hiccup reverberated from his chassis as he tried to rock in time with the pitch and yaw of the unmoving floor. 

 

Primus, he didn’t know the ARK was adrift in such turbulence.

Sunstreaker turned the corner and nearly ran the black and white officer over. He scowled, as was his usual expression, but it slowly morphed into devilish pleasure when he noted Jazz’s level of inebriation. He loved it when the black and white got overenergized. He could talk him into just about anything. 

“Hey Jazz,” Sunstreaker said, watching the blue optical band flicker and try to even out the illumination.

“Sunnsss,” Jazz slurred, giving a lop sided smile that made him look adorable. Too bad the saboteur could rip your spark out and you’d never know it, hence why Sunstreaker was always wary around the black and white. 

Sunstreaker riled at the nickname, but remembering Jazz’s state of mind, he smiled it off and placed his hands on the Third in Command’s shoulders to steady him. “Had some fun, I take it?”

Jazz latched onto Sunstreaker’s arms like anchors during a hurricane. His optical band gave up on trying to balance its colors and opted for flickering to a pale blue on the left and a rosy pink on the right. 

“Yuppsss,” he said, giving Sunstreaker another brilliant smile.

Sunstreaker eyed the color change, his processor highlighting similar times the band had changed to a more Decepticon hue. He didn’t know if Jazz was aware of the alternating allegiance, but there was a small part of Sunstreaker that reminded him that Jazz was notorious for blending into any environment. Which was why he was so good at his job. Course, it didn’t mean that the red optical relays didn’t cause some friction with the Autobots, some even muttering about Jazz’s intentions when things didn’t go according to plan. Sunstreaker harbored such inclinations as well. Jazz was fun loving and got along with everyone, but to Sunstreaker, it seemed a ruse. Get people to relax, let down their guard, then they wouldn’t see the energon blade slip between their plating while Jazz smiled his wickedly adorable way. 

Though he secretly questioned Jazz’s motives, Sunstreaker couldn’t pass up another opportunity to torture his favorite officer. Normally he wouldn’t involve himself with the crew members, but Sideswipe had a very nasty and permanent influence on the golden mech. So, he couldn’t help himself.

“I saw Prowl a little bit ago,” Sunstreaker said, trying to find a point to focus on the optical band. He decided to concentrate on the blue, finding the reddish hue to be off-putting. “He asked if I had seen you.”

“He’sss did?” Jazz asked, wobbling slightly in Sunstreaker’s arms. 

“Yes,” Sunstreaker said, feeling a giddiness rise that usually came from his twin when he was pranking. If this is what Sideswipe felt every time he set up a joke, then Sunstreaker may have to look into this alternative form of creative outlets. “Said he missed you and was feeling sad because you won’t love him.”

“Awwww,” Jazz muttered, head still swaying. “He mish me?”

“Yes, its so sad,” Sunstreaker said, putting on the ruse of looking disappointed. “You should go to his quarters and show him how much he means to you.”

“Yeash,” Jazz said, finding conviction. 

Sunstreaker pointed the inebriated officer in the right direction and watched as he staggered down the hall to his doom. Not one to miss out on a good prank, Sunstreaker followed at a sedate pace, stopping at the end of the hall and peering around the corner. He opened a link to his twin, who sat in the control room at monitor duty. 

Jazz stood outside of Prowl’s door for a moment, as if trying to remember what he was doing there. Then with deft fingers, twiddled the control box and stepped through the door when it opened. 

Sunstreaker stood amazed. Even drunk, Jazz could hack a lock, and Sunstreaker knew for a fact that Prowl changed his codes at random intervals for his own personal safety. Strange how Jazz was able to break the combination every time.

Sunstreaker was pulled out of his reverie by a shout and thudding clang as two metal bodies fell to the floor. The noise was quickly followed by an assortment of muffled curses and acidic threats. 

He snickered, feeling his brother’s laughter echo through their bond. Sunstreaker knew that Prowl was on a private call with several elected officials dealing with something called a “Secret Service” and some one paying the Autobots a visit. The poor humans probably didn’t know what to make of the scene displayed before them on the live conference call. A loud clang signaled that Jazz had just met an angry fist, before Prowl’s voice started offering apologies and explanations for drunken comrades. 

Tele-Tran’s voice echoed down the corridor, “Nineteen dollars has been added to your account.”

Sunstreaker laughed, heading back to his quarters for a light charge before shift change. He was determined to make Prowl pay. If the crew had to be punished, well, Sunstreaker was going to make damn sure that the non-cursing element pay a penance for enacting such a restriction in the first place. Sunstreaker was the champion at such retribution. 

Now, only one left to teach the lesson to was Prime. And Sunstreaker knew he’d have to employ his twin for the more elaborate scheme.

 

\-------------------------------------------------------------------

 

“You have my assurances that the Autobots will make every effort to ensure the continued alliance between your respective nations,” Prime said, glancing between the handful of foreign dignitaries and ambassadors. “We will conduct ourselves appropriately upon each of your behalves.”

His speech ended and into the conference room ran Sideswipe, face awash in tears and promptly launched himself into his leader’s arms. Prime staggered with the Lamborghini’s unexpected weight.

“Sideswipe! What is the meaning of this?” Prime shouted, struggling to put the crying Lamborghini at arm’s length. It was a difficult feat, seeing how Sideswipe wanted to keep his arms wrapped around Prime’s neck as he cried.

“I just can’t believe it!” Sideswipe bawled, burying his face against Prime’s neck, his body shaking with his grief. 

“Believe what?” Prime asked, noting the dignitaries were looking uncomfortable and scared. Hoping to end this foolishness so he could see the ruby twin melted for parts, Prime jerked the red frontliner away and gave him a hard shake. “What is the meaning of this?”

“Oh, you brute!” Sideswipe crowed, tears pouring from his optics. 

Prime started, unsure how to react to such a statement. His response was cut short as Sideswipe threw his arms wide, ever the drama-mech.

“I’m carrying your child and you treat me so cruelly?” Sideswipe wailed, trying to push a wide opticed Prime away from him in mock disgust. 

“Wha…?” Prime asked, stupefied as to what had gotten into Sideswipe.  
He most certainly had not interfaced with the Lamborghini. Why Sideswipe thought him a co-creator was beyond imagination. 

Sideswipe turned distraught optics to the crowd of human ambassadors, half of them women, and pointed an accusing finger to the Autobot leader. “He has his way with me, creates a child with me, and now he thinks I’m unworthy!”

Several sets of narrowed eyes focused on the stunned Autobot leader, who could only stare agape at the scene. Confused and angry didn’t quite describe his frame of mind. His mood didn’t improve when Sideswipe turned to him and spoke with such desperation, it made his spark flutter. 

“What I have done to turn you against me?” Sideswipe asked, tears flowing freely. He looked so sad and broken, his tone pleading as he grabbed Prime’s hands in his own and held them close to his chest in a spark felt gesture that made the humans endear to the red menace. “I have only ever done as you asked. And now, that we have created such a beautiful life together, you want to throw it all away?”

Prime imitated a fish, trying to find the words to explain his abject horror at such a crazy notion, when Sideswipe spoke again, breaking his train of thought. 

“I give you my love, let you have your wicked way with me, and when you find out I have conceived, you show nothing but scorn and hatred,” Sideswipe cried out, his bottom lip quivering in distress. Two of the human femmes looked ready to join him in tears. “You may hate me, but I will not give up my child!”

Prime’s mental train stalled, unsure how he was supposed to react to such a claim. It was powerful and very compelling. He himself would never abandon a femme who was carrying, let alone his own creation. He mentally slapped himself, angry for falling so easily into Sideswipe’s dementia. Sideswipe looked crestfallen and helpless, speaking through trembling lips, and his words halted Prime’s inner turmoil. His train of thought completely derailed into the neighborhood of rage and parked in the vicinity of dismantling a Lamborghini.

“If you don’t want us, then we will not inflict our company on you any longer,’ Sideswipe said, stifling back tears and squaring his shoulders against his apparent ex-lover. “I don’t need you. Our baby doesn’t need you! We can survive without you, Jeffery!”

Prime opened his mouth to speak, then stopped as if hitting a brick wall.

Jeffery?

With optics burning with rage, Prime grabbed Sideswipe’s arms, giving him a hard shake, “You interrupt a vital meeting with human ambassadors to act out a scene from a “soap opera”?”

Several ambassadors looked thunderstruck. Four cottoned on and smiled, knowing the daytime drama and the scene quite well. 

“You’re hurting me!” Sideswipe whined, still keeping the façade of a jilted human woman. “You’ll hurt our child!”

“We don’t have a child, you insane idiot!” Prime shouted, wanting to kill the Lamborghini for staging such an elaborate scheme. The ambassadors may end their peace talks due to this incident. Sideswipe had no idea what he just destroyed. 

Sideswipe clutched his midsection and whimpered. “My baby!”

Prime then launched into a tirade of mixed origin, Tele-Tran having difficulty switching languages to engage the filters. Prime employed various degrees of Cybertronian cursing, knowing the humans were going to dissolve their peace talks, war was going to break out, and more lives were going to be lost! And it was all going to be Sideswipe’s fault!

Just then the door opened and Sunstreaker came barreling into the room.

“Prime, thank Primus you found him!” he said, grabbing his brother’s trembling frame and pulling him close.

“Both of you are on extended punishment detail for this…. This…” Prime started with a thunderous yell, but Sunstreaker cut across.

“Stop yelling!” Sunstreaker snapped, causing Sideswipe to flinch and cower closer to his twin. When Prime stared with a dumbstruck look, Sunstreaker added, in a soft, gentle tone, “Sideswipe was electrocuted by Wheeljack’s experiment, causing his processor to scramble. He thinks he’s a character in the human show, ‘As the Kitchen Sinks.’”

Heads nodded in understanding. They knew the mentioned program well. They were curious as to how a giant alien robot knew of the characters and had proceeded to act out a scene from last month’s story thread.

Sunstreaker turned to the humans, his handsome face composed in a sincere look. The look would have floored the Autobot and Decepticon forces. “I apologize for my brother. He has received an electrical shock that caused trauma to his main processor. His actions were merely reenactments of his favorite human program and I hope you will forgive him.”

Every dignitary gave a nod of their heads, several of them looking with appraising eyes to the giant alien robots. Apparently finding out that aliens enjoyed the same programming, and even reenacted the scenes spoke to their human nature and they found the giant mechanical beings to be less intimidating. 

Sideswipe continued to whimper against his twin, Sunstreaker’s arms keeping him framed in brotherly love. 

“If you’ll excuse us, I must take my brother to the medic so he can fix the problem,” Sunstreaker said, pulling Sideswipe against him and steer him toward the door.

“Of course, completely understandable,” an ambassador said, his accent so heavy it was hard to decipher his meaning. 

As soon as the door closed, the ambassadors turned to give steely gazes to Prime.

Prime cleared his intakes and placed his hand over his spark, “I do apologize for this interruption. We enjoy Earth culture to a degree that it sometimes affects our personal lives. Though I do not watch the program that has undoubtedly affected my soldier, I hope I performed the character to a believable standard.”

The fans of the soap opera gave affirmative nods. The ones who weren’t fans shrugged, unsure how to react to having a drama acted out during the middle of such volatile talks.

As soon as Sideswipe and Sunstreaker turned the corner, Sideswipe straightened up, wiping his face and smiling at his twin. “Tell me that didn’t deserve an award!”

“Slag, if you get one, then so do I,” Sunstreaker said, heading toward Ratchet’s domain to make the false claim look good in case Prime checked up on their story. “You think its easy being nice to humans and acting all sympathetic and to a weak sniveling fool?”

“Hey!” Sideswipe glared, sending a random electrical burst through his system to confuse it and make the medical exam detect an anomaly. The twins had employed such a tactic before, but never to this degree.

“One dollar…” Tele-Tran said as the duo entered the med ward, oblivious to the totals that Prime just added to his account. 

 

00000-ooooo-0000-ooooo-00000-ooooo-000000-oooooo-00000

 

“Come on baby, talk dirty for your mech,” Ironhide said in a low tone. His optics shone with intent as he started at the monitor. 

Chromia’s face shifted in and out of focus as the communication satellites encountered interference. It wasn’t often the Earth bound Autobots were able to contact their Cybertronian brethren, and when they did, everyone utilized the time to speak to their loved ones. Ironhide was rather prominent in utilizing the rare communications feed. 

“After all this time and you only want me to talk dirty?” Chromia asked, giving Ironhide a death glare. “What if someone overhears? I’d be mortified! I’d never be able to show my face to the Autobot ranks again!”

“It’s just me, Mia,” Ironhide said, looking around the quiet, and darkened control room. “I volunteered for monitor duty so I could talk to you.”

“And how many others are hiding behind the monitor, listening in?” Chromia asked, glaring at her bond mate. “It wouldn’t be the first time you talked me into doing something perverted for you, and your friends who were listening in.”

“I told you I didn’t know they were there!” Ironhide said, matching the irate glare with one of his own. “You know I slagged the fraggers who were listening in.”

Tele-Tran intoned softly in the back ground, unnoticed by the two distant lovers.

Chromia’s expression softened, remembering being informed her lover was incarcerated for attacking fellow Autobots. She had found him in his cell, covered in dents and scratches, and learned that he had defended her honor when his so called ‘friends’ had overheard their conversation and made snide remarks about Chromia and her juvenile attempts at sexual expression. 

No one degraded Ironhide’s femme. 

When Chromia had learned what was said, she had found the loudmouthed glitches and proceeded to create new aft ports. She landed in a cell opposite her bond mate. They spent the entire time smiling at each other and when they were released, they weren’t seen for a whole decacycle. But Chromia couldn’t walk properly for some time.

“Come on, Mia,” Ironhide whined, his battle-hardened face turning into a simpering puddle that only his bond mate could induce. “I’ve missed you. Missed hearing you.” His engine gave a deep, seductive rev. “Missed touching you.”

“I’ve missed you too,” Chromia whispered, her hand going to the monitor as if she could touch her distant mate. “I miss you so much, my spark aches.”

“Mine too,” Ironhide admitted softly, his hand touching the screen directly over Chromia’s smaller servo. 

“When will this war end?” Chromia asked, feeling the eons of turmoil settle like titanium in her frame.

“Not soon enough,” Ironhide groused. His face took on a wistful look as he added, “Until it’s over, then this is all we have.”

“A few moments stolen across a universe,” Chromia said with a sad smile.

“You wait until we can come back to Cybertron,” Ironhide said, his voice full of conviction. “I have every intention of making you a very happy femme.”

“Oh, you’re bringing a friend?” Chromia asked in mock surprise. She loved to rile up her mate.

Ironhide’s expression went from lecherous to gobsmacked. He narrowed his optics and leaned closer to the screen. “Do you want me to bring a friend?”

“Hmmm,” Chromia said, pretending to think. She covertly was trying to garner a response from any potential eavesdroppers. “I believe Prowl and Jazz are unattached. I wouldn’t mind checking under their hoods.”

“The slag you will, Femme!” Ironhide barked, rising from his seat to tower over the monitor.

Tele-Tran continued to monitor in the background, but neither party heard.

Chromia’s rich laughter peeled through the communiqué, her optics glittering, even in the dismal transmission stream. Ironhide’s solo voice didn’t escape her notice. She knew he was true to his word, being all alone, and wanting nothing more than to be with his femme. Her expression softened, finding herself falling in love with him all over again. He was adorable when he was protective and commanding. It made her tingle in a long forgotten place. 

“Sit down, Hide,” she chastised. 

Ironhide did but his scowl was so deeply entrenched, Sunstreaker would have been proud. 

“Is my big, strong, handsome mech feeling protective of little ole me?” Chromia cooed, earning a deep rumble from her mate. She shivered, remembering that sound and the physical sensation that accompanied it. Primus, she missed her mate.

“Primus, Chromia, I love you so much,” Ironhide said, securing Chromia’s guess he was alone. There was no way in the Pit he’d say something so sappy and romantic with other audios in the vicinity. That type of sentiment was chorused with retching noises and catcalls. 

“Love you too, Hide,” Chromia smiled, then leaned toward the monitor, her face taking up most of the screen. “Do you know what I would like to do to you?”

“Oh, Primus,” Ironhide rumbled, torn between inching up on his own vid screen and wanting to lay back in his chair and let his processor, and hand, drift to his mate’s words. 

“I would start with your left cannon first,” Chromia said, biting her lower lip when she heard the soft whir of fans kick on from her mate. She knew how to drive him wild. She may be thousands of light years away, but she could explain her delicate and expert handling of her mech. “Carefully turn the barrels, making sure they moved in perfect motion. Listen to the pitch as they hummed to life. The way they sing when they prepare for battle. All the little mechanisms inside working in perfect tandem that bends to the will of its master. So strong. So powerful. So tempered.”

“Oh Primus,” Ironhide moaned, leaning closer to the screen and drinking in his mate’s voice with acute audios. “Keep talking, femme.”

“The right would be carefully inspected as well,” Chromia said, knowing just how to get under her mate’s armor and make him susceptible to anything. She knew his body well. It was a perfect match to her own. “Their song calls the victims forth, drawing them into a lair. Their parts move in fluid grace, well oiled, perfectly timed, balanced, the pitch wavering as they prepare for discharge.”

Ironhide shuttered his optics at her words, his frame tense. Primus that femme knew how to talk to him! He felt his interface array come online, his plating getting warm with the building tension. 

“And when they release their charge,” Chromia said in a seductive sigh, adding a little gasp of feigned surprise for the benefit of her attentive audience. Her voice deepened, becoming sultry and dripping with sexual allure that had Ironhide panting, his hand pressing against his interface panel. “The force of their energy shakes my plating. The power of the blast makes me weak, my knees almost force me to surrender, but I cant stop. My hand runs along the barrel, the heat threatening to melt my fingertips, but I press on, finding the next round ready for discharge. The speed at which they recharge is astounding, causing my spark to falter in fear. They are so powerful. They could end my life with a single burst but I know they will not.”

Ironhide groaned, imagining his mate’s delicate fingers inspecting his weapons. She knew he was very sensitive at their junction, and many times the duo had inspected each other’s weapons with great fervor. The best interfaces involved firearms. 

Chromia had been the only femme to understand the weapon’s specialist fascination with weapons and shared his passion. 

“The one who wields their power knows how to reign them in, making them safe as I once again behold their destructive whine,” Chromia purred, feeling her own interface panel heat in a very pleasant way. “As they turn in torture, waiting to be released once again, I refrain from instigating their trigger. They have passed my inspection and now my attention must travel elsewhere.”

Ironhide couldn’t hold back the moan that escaped. With a whine his spike erupted from its housing, pressurizing for its mistress and saluting her with eagerness.

“Oh my!” Chromia said, fighting the urge to retract her valve cover. She forgot how impressive her mate could be when properly provoked. Next time he visited Cybertron, she had every intention of reacquainting herself with every nuance of his body. Starting with the impressive length pointing directly at her on the screen. Silence fell as the two stared into each other’s optics, wanting so desperately to physically come together.

“Thirteen dollars has been added to your account,” Tele-Tran intoned, breaking the beautiful moment between star crossed lovers.

“Who was that?” Chromia asked, her optics going wide in fear.

“Blasted Tele-Tran!” Ironhide barked, glaring over at the main consol which blinked two lights amongst its darkened bank.

“Ironhide, so help me, if you aren’t alone..” Chromia growled, her fist slamming down on the consol, causing her image to shift out of focus for a second. 

“I’m alone, I’m alone!” Ironhide chanted, his hand going to his spike as he stared at the wavering screen. “Don’t go, Mia! It’s only me, I swear!”

“Don’t you lie to me, Ironhide!” Chromia snarled, dropping all seductive manner and turning into a femme who was ready to rip off any appendage she could wrap her vice like fingers around. 

“I’m not, slag it!” Ironhide yelled, only to be interrupted by Tele-Tran’s voice.

“Fourteen dollars,” Tele-Tran intoned.

“Alone my aft plates!” Chromia barked, her image distorting from interference. 

“Fifteen dollars,” Tele-Tran said, earning an angered growl from Ironhide.

“I didn’t say anything, you piece of scrap!” Ironhide barked over at the main consol.

“Piece of scrap huh?” Chromia repeated, her image fading in an out from the faltering connection. “Well, see how well this piece of scrap treats you the next time you visit!”

Her words were cut off as the screen faded to static, scrolling text revealing the signal had been lost due to an ionic storm. Ironhide snarled, slamming his fist onto the consol and causing the screen to blank for a second. He glared over the main computer, ready to dismantle it for disrupting the good time he was having with his femme. Being very aroused with no means of release was a bad predicament to be in. Ironhide promised to throttle Prowl when he saw him for instating such a frivolous and potentially disastrous restriction. Ironhide vowed that if he couldn’t explain things to Chromia the next time they can communicate, he was going to hold Prowl by a doorwing and make the Praxian explain the situation. Preferably with a lot of crying and begging.

 

00000-oooooo-000000-ooooooo-0000000-ooooooo-000000

 

The end of the month drew near. Prime invited the head administrator at a local children’s hospital to accept a check from the Autobot forces. Prowl was typing away at Tele-Tran’s main terminal, ensuring that all donations were going on account as Prime escorted the human male inside the ARK. 

“I can’t believe you would use your valuable time to raise money for a children’s hospital,” the man was saying. He was tall, thin, and had more hair on his chin than his head. 

“The Autobots are always willing to help those in need,” Prime said with a smile. 

“Still, its just…” the man gave a partial shrug, clearly unsure of his next words. He wanted to say how weird it was that giant alien robots were willing to donate something as valuable as time and money to complete strangers. It was mind boggling. Movies always depicted the aliens as human eaters or wanting to enslave the population. There was very little movie magic about peace loving aliens who did charity work for children.

“We’re honored,” the man finally settled on saying. His head had started hurting since he was informed of the check presenting ceremony, and he had a feeling it wouldn’t subside until he was away from the strange alien beings. 

“We are prepared, Prime,’ Prowl stated, rising from the terminal and nodding to Jazz, who pulled out a large blank check. Prowl gave the other black and white a curious look, but Jazz merely presented his disarming smile, and the tactician relented.

Prime motioned for the human to join him at the terminal and spoke to the main computer.

“Tele-Tran, begin accountable deductions,” Prime said, already having Prowl to program the computer to list names and donations only. There was no reason for the human to know the cause of the monetary donation.

“Donations are as follows,” Tele-Tran started. “Blaster- 81, Bluestreak- 48.”

“Hey, why is mine so high?” Bluestreak protested, earning a shushing from the command staff. He frowned, wondering when he was deducted so heavily. He had a feeling high grade and a poker game in the rec room were responsible. 

“Brawn- 57, Bumblebee- 2” Tele-Tran rambled in slow monotone that would have made Soundwave proud.

At the mention of Bumblebee’s name, several heads swiveled to look at the youngest member of their crew. Bumblebee gave a small wave, his expression one of anticipating a punishment later.

“Cliffjumper- 79, Gears- 371, Grapple- 14, Hoist-12.”

“You and your planning sessions while drinking high grade,” Grapple said to Hoist, earning a shrug in answer.

“Hound- 50.”

“Really?” Jazz asked, looking to the normally passive mech and seeing him grin. 

Hound jerked a thumb toward the mini-bots and Mirage, “I blame them.”

Mirage huffed, knowing his totals weren’t going to be high. He rarely used such degrading words. There were far better ways of expressing ones self instead of using the irksome gutter speech. 

“Huffer- 206, Inferno- 78, Ironhide- 2,974.”

“No surprise there,” Jazz commented with a grin.

“Shut up, half pint,” Ironhide groused, crossing his arms and glaring at the terminal. Tele-Tran continued to drone on.

“Jazz- 365.”

“What?” Jazz squawked. “I kept a tally! It should be only 28!”

“Nice try,” Ironhide sneered.

“Mirage- 109.”

“What?” The noble shouted, earning several startled expressions. “I demand a recount!”

“Shush!” Jazz admonished, wanting to hear the rest of the totals. He was the one writing the check, and he wanted to get the calculations correct.

“Optimus Prime- 141.”

Prime turned narrowed optics to the twins, who had the good grace to look away in fear of melting into slag from their leader’s gaze. 

“You too, huh?” Jazz asked their leader. Prime exhaled hot air through his vents but didn’t elaborate.

“Powerglide- 6, Perceptor- 51.”

“Hey! Not fair!” the scientist barked, pointing an accusing finger to the Lamborghini twins. “They gave me high grade! I was overenergized!”

“Still counts, Perc,” Jazz called.

“Prowl- 274.” Tele-Tran intoned.

Prowl’s gaze drifted to the twins, then to Jazz, who had the decency to look away. Jazz’s late night visits had garnered the high count and Prowl had every intention of punishing the offending parties. It was one thing to play a joke and get a laugh. It was something else altogether when you constantly took advantage of a drunk mech and sent him to his potential death at the hands of a furious Praxian. 

“Ratchet- 9,734.”

“Big surprise there!” Ironhide laughed, earning a wrench to the side of his helm. He cast dazed optics over to the shimmering white medical officer, but wisely kept his vocalizer shut.

“Red Alert- 150.”

“I was framed!” the white Lamborghini cried out, earning several snickers.

“Sideswipe- 2,109.”

Sideswipe gave his brother a cheeky look. Sunstreaker scowled and looked away.

“Smokescreen- 189.”

“What?” the diversionary tactician exclaimed. He looked angrily between the command staff, then narrowed his optics at the smug look on Prowl’s face. There was going to be an old fashioned Praxian debate later that evening. And there was a high probability that doorwings were going to be involved.

“Sunstreaker- 462.”

Sideswipe gave an appreciative whistle that Sunstreaker studiously ignored.

“Tracks- 155, Trailbreaker- 35, Wheeljack-71, Windcharger-33.” Tele-Tran finished.

“I guess Tele-Tran can hear in my lab,” Wheeljack laughed, knowing quite a few things had been said in the apparent safety of the explosion bunker.

Jazz flourished the stylus with a smile and wrote out the check, handing it to Prime who turned to the human visitor. 

“Oh behalf of the Autobots, please accept our donation to your hospital,” Prime said, smiling behind his mask. 

The man gawked at the check, which was just over $13,000.00.

“On behalf the children, we thank you for your generosity,’ he said, noting the beautiful penmanship of the text. 

When the hospital administrator left, those who believed themselves to be slighted spoke up. Prowl held up a servo and waited until silence reigned before speaking.

“Tele-Tran not only recorded inappropriate words, but any vulgar expression, be it human or Cybertronian,” Prowl stated, earning several glares. “You were warned to keep a civil, decent vocalizer, so it is only fitting you reap the reward to your crude expressionism.”

“You’re guilty of cursing too,” Sideswipe pointed out. Several others nodded in agreement.

“My lack of discretion is sorely upon my shoulders and I accept the responsibility,” Prowl said, looking to Jazz. “I shouldn’t project such hostility toward a comrade who is in a suggestive state and therefore, has no control over their actions.”

Jazz frowned.

“However this experience has shown my flaws, and I have every intention of seeing them amended,” Prowl said, displaying that annoying superior look that made Mirage look like an amateur. 

It was Ratchet who directed everyone’s murderous gaze away from Prowl. The medic stalked to the Command element, his favorite wrench in hand and brandishing it toward the guilty mechs. 

“Just so you know, this debauchery of verbal enslavement is at an end. I’m a slagging adult, and have been for longer than any of you have lived. And just so you know, the next time this happens, I will thoroughly frag up whoever suggests it, and by the time I’m done with them, they wont know their aft from a decepticons inadequate interface cable.”

Ratchet’s tirade lasted a full ten minutes, his words never repeating, and his ire turned to Prime and Prowl equally, giving each a dirty glare before finishing, “And in the vernacular, you can go frag yourselves into oblivion. I say what I want in my own slagging repair bay.”

With one contemptuous look to the command unit he turned on his heel and exited.

Tele-Tran gave a few feeble beeps, before a thin curl of smoke issued form its consol. 

“Slag. He broke Tele-Tran,” Jazz sighed, earning a few snickers.

Optimus Prime face palmed. 

 

\------ ------- ------

 

Liked it? Hated it?

Been done to death and I just added more dirt to the grave?

All feedback is welcomed.


End file.
